


Fixed

by yeaka



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-28 00:02:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20957126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Noctis messed up.





	Fixed

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Final Fantasy XV or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

There’s nothing good on TV. Prompto flips through it anyway. To be fair, there are a few decent programs he could probably slog through, but he doesn’t feel like any of it. He doesn’t feel like anything but wallowing in his own misery. He’s too old to be acting so sullen, but he can’t help himself. Prompto finally shuts the TV off, leans his head back on the armrest of the couch, and stares blankly up at his beige ceiling. Maybe it’d be better if he at least had a work shift. That could _force_ him to get over it. Instead, he’s wasting one of his rare days off just being childish. 

Usually, he’d spend his days off with Noctis. Noctis did invite him over earlier. But Prompto came up with an excuse to hang up the phone, because even though he tells himself he’s not, he _is_ upset with Noctis. Which kills him. Because his world mostly revolves around Noctis, as pathetic as that is. 

Someone knocks on the front door, and Prompto can’t help but wonder if that’s Noctis now. Maybe Noctis is going to demand that he snap out of it and stop being such a shitty friend. Friends don’t hold little mistakes against each other. Friends forgive. Prompto knows he will eventually. He can’t go long without Noctis in his life. He just... needs a little time.

He answers the door anyway, because maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s mail for his parents or, even more unlikely, his parents themselves.

It’s not. It’s Ignis. He stands on Prompto’s doorstep looking as dapper as ever, his suit fully ironed and a briefcase at his side. Prompto blinks down at it, and for a quick second, Prompto’s over active imagination summons an absurd idea: what if that case is full of cash, and Noctis sent his advisor over to bribe his best friend back into his life.

That would really be ridiculous, though. Noctis would never do that. Half the reason Noctis even likes Prompto is because he _doesn’t_ expect any money. Wearing a thin frown, Ignis says, “I’ve heard Noctis has caused some problems for you. Could I see the damage?”

Prompto nods and immediately steps back, spluttering, “Uh, yeah, sure... come in...” Because even if he did somehow friend breakup with Noctis, he’d still love to have Ignis and Gladiolus in his life. Even if he knows they probably wouldn’t stick around. Ignis steps out of his shoes and makes his own way to the empty dining table. As he puts his briefcase down and sheds his jacket over the back of one wooden chair, Prompto walks over to the garbage in his room. 

He pulls the tattered chocobo stuffie off the top. Nothing else has gone in after it, and nothing messy went in before it. Looking at the giant gash in the side still chokes him up. He feels like such a child. Missing stuffing isn’t wounded flesh. 

He brings the toy over to Ignis anyway, blushing with embarrassment. He mutters, “I know it’s stupid... I’m a grown man; I shouldn’t care about my childhood toys...”

Ignis accepts the stuffed animal without a word. His eyes do flicker to Prompto’s, piercing right into his soul, and there’s no judgment there. Prompto swallows the rest of his shameful excuse and takes a seat across from Ignis. Ignis pops his briefcase open.

It’s lined in sewing materials. Ignis pulls a few small spindles out, holding them up and comparing the different shades of yellow thread to the bright yellow fake-fur all over the chocobo. When he finds a suitable match, he plucks a needle out of the cushion and threads it. 

Prompto swallows. He mutters quietly, “You don’t have to do that.”

Ignis tells him, “It’s not trouble.” The needle slots into the chocobo’s side, just under it’s beak. Prompto has to look away. He’s had Boko long enough that it feels like he’s witnessing a surgery, which is still better than a funeral. After Noctis had left, having accidentally sliced Boko open with a show-off swirl of a sword out of his armiger, Prompto had actually cried. He felt like a baby, but he cried anyway. His mother gave him Boko before the first time she and Prompto’s father had gone away on a long trip. He spent more time sitting across from Boko at the dinner table than he did from them. 

Ignis repairs Boko with neat, precise stitches. Prompto tries to make himself watch, because he has to stop acting like a child at some point. He feels obligated to say, “You probably have better things to do...”

“Yet my prince begged me to do this,” Ignis smoothly answers. “I believe he even used the term ‘royal order.’”

A broken smile twitches at Prompto’s lips. He didn’t think Noctis would actually go home still thinking about it. It’s sweet that Noctis cared. Ignis stops halfway along the seam to carefully gather the puffs of white stuffing sticking out. He tucks them back in with his needle whilst keeping the thread taut. Noctis had tried to shove that stuffing back in, so it’s all there, clustered around the wound: Boko hasn’t lost any weight over this. 

Grateful for Ignis’ attention, Prompto asks, “Would you like a drink or anything...?”

“No, thank you.”

He finishes up the long gash, ties off several close-cut knots, then leans in and painstakingly rearranges the yellow fur around the wound. Once he’s brushed it out, the new seam is hardly visible. Ignis hands the toy back to Prompto, announcing, “There; good as new.”

Prompto can’t help his smile. It stretches so wide that his jaw hurts. He tells Ignis, “_Thank you_.”

Ignis nods. He looks happy to have helped, which just shows how big his heart really is. When Ignis gets up, Prompto does too. As Ignis is packing up his briefcase, another knock sounds on the door. 

Confused, Prompto answers it. 

Noctis stands on the other side, blushing and looking half determined, half wildly anxious. As soon as the door’s open, he thrusts out a giant bouquet of flowers that throws Prompto for a loop. 

“I’m sorry,” Noctis says. Prompto meekly accepts the flowers. A small puffball is thrust out next—a tiny chocochick toy that matches Boko’s style. Prompto shifts the flowers around to accept that too. Then he’s given what looks like a box of chocolates. Finally out of presents, Noctis repeats, “I’m _so_ sorry. I would’ve fixed it myself, but I suck at sewing—I probably would’ve made it worse.”

“That’s alright,” Ignis interjects, squeezing past them to step outside. He informs Noctis, “It’s repaired.” Then he nods his head to Prompto and takes his leave, walking off with Noctis left behind. Prompto blinks dazedly at him.

The flowers are actually kind of heavy. And Prompto’s arms are completely full. He hesitates, then walks back into the house to dump it all on the dining table. Noctis calls nervously after him, “Prom?”

Prompto practically runs back. He opens his arms and pounces on Noctis, enveloping him in a mammoth hug. Prompto couldn’t have stayed mad at Noctis for long. He already spent all morning missing Noctis. He wishes he hadn’t been such a baby about it and not let Noctis leave at all. 

After a moment, Noctis tentatively holds him back. Prompto mumbles into his hair, “’M sorry too.”

Noctis squeezes him. Prompto feels choked up and waits for that feeling to pass before he finally lets Noctis go. 

He sniffs and asks hopefully, “Wanna come in and play some games?”

Relief washes over Noctis’ face. He smiles and says, “Yeah.”


End file.
